Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (11 page)

Mamie gave in to her insomnia and sat up in bed. The night was so quiet she could hear the prairie grass below her windows rustle in the wind. Her stomach growled. With a sigh, she threw the covers back, felt her way into the slippers at the side of her bed, and made her way through the parlor. Moonlight spilling in the turret windows reflected off the muslin squares marching across the top of a quilt draped over the back of her rocker. Making a shawl of the quilt, she stood at the narrow turret window, staring at the warden’s house across the road and thinking back over the day’s events.

Be thankful unto him, and bless His name… Give thanks unto the Lord for He is good: for His mercy endureth for ever.
God had a way of reminding her of phrases from the Good Book that applied to the moment at hand, and tonight was no exception. She’d learned long ago that going down a list of what she thought of as “thankfuls” was one of the best ways to banish worry. And it seemed that, in spite of the day ending well and no one being permanently harmed, she still had a lot to worry over.

It took some thinking to untangle the blessings from the fabric of a day that looked downright tattered at first glance. She should have recognized that Pearl Brand was a danger.
Thank You that she didn’t do serious damage.
The idea of facing the day when Pearl was released from solitary made her shudder with fear.
Thank You that the warden doesn’t seem inclined to do that anytime soon.
Matrons had lost their jobs over smaller disturbances than the one today.
Thank You that the warden’s already said he doesn’t plan to fire me.
She couldn’t bear the idea of taking Vestal’s baby away.
Thank You for sending a good doctor around just when we needed him.
Her laxness could have gotten the warden killed.
Thank You that Martin is such a brave man.

Martin.
Heaven help her, she was thinking of the man by his given name. She must never call him Martin to his face.
Why not? He called you Mamie more than once today. And you didn’t mind.
Mamie sighed. Try as she would, she could not bring herself to be thankful for Martin Underhill’s obvious interest in her. Mr. Selleck’s handsome smile flashed in her mind.
Why are you being so… earthly minded? The Bible clearly says that it isn’t the outward appearance that matters.

“Thank You, Lord, for putting up with me. I know I’m shallow, but…” Surely God wouldn’t answer years of prayer with a man people called Frankenstein behind his back, would He?
Forgive me, Lord. I can’t help it. You’re going to have to take charge of the matter of Martin Underhill. I realize there’s a good man behind those odd eyes. But Lord…

Shivering against the cool night, Mamie pulled the quilt closer and headed into the kitchen. She lit a lamp on the table, murmuring to herself as she heated water for tea. She would think about Martin another time. Or not at all. Perhaps her assumptions were another case of her overactive imagination rearing its head again—a repeat of her nonsensical musings about her and the Reverend Weaver. Goodness. For an old maid she could spin fantasies.

The truth was that much more than her thoughts about Martin Underhill and her concerns about Pearl Brand were keeping Mamie awake tonight. Tonight’s vigil was about the things she hadn’t seen. She’d been a matron for four years… but she hadn’t
seen.
She’d missed a lot more than just Pearl’s potential for violence. She’d missed Agnes Sweeney’s potential for caring until Agnes came to Vestal’s side. She’d missed Jane Prescott’s potential for tenderness until she saw her care for Vestal and her baby. And worst of all, she’d missed something that should have been obvious. Something she hadn’t thought about until she saw how nervous and on edge Jane Prescott was at the warden’s house and how, the minute the door closed locking her back in, her shoulders relaxed.
I’ve missed thinking about how they’re going to do once they leave this place.

Would they ever be able to shake off the past and find a way back into the world?

She called them
lambs,
and in spite of Adam Selleck’s handsome smile, she resented his tendency to talk about “hens in the henhouse” and “mares in the stable.” Oh, she knew the twelve women weren’t
innocent
lambs, but still. One day they would all leave, and what would the future hold? Jane Prescott had returned to the evening routine behind the walls with obvious relief. And that seemed… wrong, even if the world did think of female inmates as being less than women. Mamie had never believed that, but given the opportunity to defend her own beliefs, she wouldn’t have had much evidence. Until today.

Today’s crisis had revealed the women behind their names and their sentences. Yes, they had done bad things, but they had the potential to be more than caged birds. They were still women. As Mamie waited for the tea to steep, as she pondered what she thought she’d seen today, she wondered what she should do about it. How could she remind them of who they were apart from the punishment? Was there a way to lift them above their crimes and somehow set them on a new path? She hated the idea of Jane Prescott—and Vestal and every single one of the women she’d been praying for all these months—cringing with fear at the idea of freedom. That wasn’t justice.

Teapot in hand, Mamie retrieved a china cup and saucer and settled into the armchair at her kitchen table. As the golden stream of hot tea arched from spout to delicate teacup, as she inhaled the soothing aromas of bergamot and lemon, the idea that Jane Prescott now drank bitter coffee from a tin mug every morning gave Mamie pause. What was it Mrs. McKenna had said as they left the house to return to the third floor? Something about Jane’s noticing the quilts on the beds and saying she missed making beautiful things.

Mamie bowed her head.
Forgive me, Lord. I’ve fallen short. You put me here for something beyond what I’ve been doing. There’s more work to be done. Show me how to do it. Show me what You want.
In one motion, she lifted her head and stood up. She didn’t have an answer yet, but she would begin her search in the best place she knew to find answers. Retrieving her Bible from the turret room, she brought it into the kitchen and sat back down. Everything about their lives will change when they leave here. Should we be focusing on what happens after they leave instead of being content to punish?>

It was an absurd notion. No one believed in efforts at reform, at least not once a woman ended up here. These women were hopeless, weren’t they?

“You… were dead in trespasses and sins… fulfilling the desires of the flesh and of the mind… by nature the children of wrath…. But God… rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us… raised us up together.
” Mamie read the passage over and over again, struck by two words.
But God.
The passage spoke of terrible acts of sin,
but God.
Because of God’s free gift of redemption, the same passage rang with hope. God loved sinners. He promised hope. If God hadn’t given up on Mamie Dawson, how could she give up on those women just past turnkey? How could she be content to merely lock them in and hope for the best?

Mamie sat back in her chair, thinking. Muttering to herself. Praying. And finally, she realized that she couldn’t just lock them in and hope for the best. God expected more of her, and with His help—and the warden’s cooperation—she would give it.

If this is Your voice, Lord, show me what You want me to do. Show me how to help them learn how to be. A familiar passage came to mind, and she opened her Bible to Proverbs 31. “Let her own works praise her in the gates. She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly
with her hands… she shall rejoice in time to come.”
Mamie had always concentrated on the parts of that passage that spoke of husbands and children. Somehow it had always made her feel a sense of loss. Now she wondered if it might show her a way to serve the women on the third floor.

Retrieving pen and paper from the desk in the parlor, Mamie reread the passage.
“Who can find a virtuous woman?”
There was a very long list of all the things a woman should do, a woman society would “praise in the gates.” Mamie knew she couldn’t change hearts. Only God could do that.
“Begin with the virtuous works. Help them do the right things…. Leave their hearts to Me.”

Mamie scribbled until dawn, and still she wasn’t finished. When she finally sat back, she had several pages of notes. Ink blotches. Crossed-out words. And more than likely, a good amount of faulty reasoning. Still, it was a beginning, and the ideas borne on the night air, somehow inspired by the events of the previous day, gave her a new view of her unlikely work. The sudden realization that some of her thoughts this night echoed the words of one of the missionary ladies from China who had spoken at a church meeting last year gave her goose bumps.

Of course predawn discoveries supported by a combination of reason and scripture wouldn’t matter one bit if Warden McKenna listened and laughed. Or—what would be worse—listened, nodded, seemed to be in agreement with her… and did nothing.

Ellen cherished the predawn moments when she and Ian lay in each other’s arms beneath a pile of quilts, content to revel in their nearness until the skies blushed with morning light. She loved the feel of his whiskers on her skin and the lingering scent of bay rum from the pomade he used to tame his obstinately curly hair. And this morning as Ian roused and pulled her close, the preciousness of every single blessing brought unexpected tears.
Forgive me for not being grateful.
She kissed the back of his hand before pressing it against her cheek.

“You using your wiles again, Mrs. McKenna?” He nuzzled her shoulder. “Because it’s working.”

Ellen rolled onto her back, so she could look up into his eyes. “I’m realizing how blessed I am. And regretting how hard I’ve made it on you lately, what with grumbling about the garden and the house and—” His hand moved. She caught her breath. “I’m going to try to do better.”

He grinned down at her. “Have I complained?”

“No. But I haven’t exactly taken it upon myself to be a model warden’s wife, have I?”

He shrugged. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel—“

“You haven’t.” She paused. “But yesterday… being around those two women… it changed how I think about things. How I think about
them.
It made me think that I should do… something.”

Ian slid from under the covers and reached for his long underwear. She moved closer and put her palm on his back. “I didn’t mean to send you skittering out of our bed.”

He spoke without looking her way. “I can’t make a decision about Vestal Jackson’s baby until I’ve talked to some people, Ellen. I heard what you had to say on the matter, and I’m not unsympathetic, but—“

She patted his bare back. “Did I mention the baby? I’m not some harpy intent on nagging you to get my way. I’m saying that yesterday reminded me of how blessed I am.” She took a deep breath. “And if you approve, I’d like to speak with Miss Dawson about how I might be of use. One of the women mentioned how much she misses making beautiful things. Apparently she used to go to quiltings.”

He turned to look at her. “Are you telling me you want to start a quilting bee across the road?”

Ellen shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m hoping Miss Dawson might have some ideas.”

He smiled. “I have a meeting scheduled with her this morning. I’ll tell her you’d like to speak with her.”

“Doesn’t she get Saturdays off? Invite her to tea.”

Ian nodded. “Tea on Saturday. I’ll let her know. Anything else?”

“Not a thing. Unless—” She batted her eyelashes, bared one shoulder.

“Georgia’s made apple fritters!” Jack’s voice sounded from the hallway.

Ian groaned softly even as he bent to kiss her on the cheek.

“Sounds wonderful!” Ellen called in the general direction of the bedroom door. She tucked her shoulder back inside the gown and reached for the wrapper draped across the foot of the bed, chuckling as Ian groused about “that boy’s confounded timing.” Blowing him a kiss, Ellen headed downstairs.

M
amie affixed her key ring to the loop at her waist and smoothed her collar. With a last glance in her bedroom mirror, she headed into the hall where the notes she’d made in the night waited on the silver tray by the door. Adjusting her glasses, she scanned the list again and said a prayer before putting it back down.
If I’ve lost my mind, please somehow keep me from presenting this to Warden McKenna today.
She’d have to come back this way to reach the warden’s first-floor office on the free side. She’d grab it then.

As she took the familiar path down to the second, through turnkey, past the chapel on the secure side, and then up the narrow stairs to the third-floor female department, Mamie thought of Martin Underhill. He was always waiting for her on weekday mornings, whether he’d had the night watch or not. He might be sweeping the floor or polishing doorknobs—as if either of those were part of a guard’s regular duties. He’d made it his habit to help Mamie unload the dumbwaiter that brought breakfast up from the basement kitchen. And it had annoyed her no end. This morning, though, realizing that Martin had been ordered to rest for the next few days and was likely still in the infirmary, Mamie was shocked to realize that she would miss him.
Well of course you will. If there’s one thing the female department needs today, it’s reassurance that we have things in hand and they are safe.
Martin might not be pretty, but he did have a way about him, a kindness that none of the other guards—“Morning, Ma—Miss Dawson.”